Visiting an art gallery always goes the same way for me. I look at one artwork. I look at the next artwork. And then the next. What was the first one again? Was it of a farm? Who knows? I reach the inevitable conclusion: there are simply too many paintings. After about 15 minutes I’ve had enough and don’t want to look at any more art; by the time I reach the gift shop I have a powerful urge to lie face down on the floor and go to sleep.
To be clear: I like art. I grew up drawing and painting, did GCSE art and still paint now. But when I go to a gallery now, hoping that this time I’ll feel something, I’m dismayed by the sheer volume of what’s on offer. The National Gallery displays more than 2,400 artworks and the Louvre up to 4,500 paintings. The New York Met boasts tens of thousands of artworks, but I wouldn’t know. When I visited, the rooms were so monotonous and numerous that I got lost, couldn’t find my friends, asked a security guard for help, went up and down in a lift, sat on a bench and then left early. I do not recall a single piece of art. Seeing as the average viewing time is only 27 seconds, that means an hour’s trip exposes you to a whopping 133 paintings. No wonder I can only remember a handful I’ve seen over the years (and those ones are already famous).
